Jimgrim and Allah's Peace (Spy Thriller). Talbot Mundy

on the fourth evening, just at sunset, when the sandwiches I had ordered in advance were all thoroughly stale and I had almost decided to unpack the small hand-grip and try to forget the whole affair, I noticed an Arab standing in the door of the hotel scrutinizing every one who passed him. I watched him for five minutes. He paid no attention to officers in uniform. I left my chair in the lobby and walked past him twice.

      He had one eye, like a gimlet on a universal joint; he turned it this and that way without any corresponding movement of his head. It penetrated. You felt he could have seen you with it in the dark.

      I started to pass him a third time. He held his hand out and thrust a small, soiled piece of paper into mine. The writing on it was in Arabic, so I went back to the seat in the far corner, to puzzle it out, he standing meanwhile in the doorway and continuing to quiz people as if I had meant nothing in his life. The message was short enough:

      Bearer will accompany you to a place where the escort will be in readiness. God give your honour a good journey. Mustapha Ben Nasir.

      I went to the Governorate and phoned for the car to come and pick me up outside the Jaffa Gate. The Arab followed me, and he and I were both searched at the gate for weapons, by a Sikh who knew nothing and cared less about Near East politics. His orders were to search thoroughly. He did it. The man whose turn was next ahead of mine was a Russian priest, whose long black cloak did not save him from painstaking suspicion. He was still indignantly refusing to take down his pants and prove that the hard lump on his thigh was really an amulet against sciatica, when the car came for me.

      It was an ordinary Ford car, and the driver was not in uniform. He, too, had only one eye in full commission, for the other was bruised and father swollen. I got in beside him and let the Arab have the rear seat to himself, reflecting that I would be able to smell all the Arab sweat I cared to in the days to come.

      We are governed much more by our noses than we are often aware of, and I believe that many people—in the East especially—use scent because intuition warns them that their true smell would arouse unconscious antagonism. Dogs, as well as most wild animals, fight at the suggestion of a smell. Humans only differ from the animals, much, when they are being self-consciously human. Then they forget what they really know and tumble headlong into trouble.

      The driver seemed to know which road to take, and to be in no particular hurry, perhaps on account of his injured eye. He was an ex-soldier, of course: one of those under-sized Cockneys with the Whitechapel pallor overlying a pugnacious instinct, who make such astonishing fighting-men in the intervals between sulking and a sort of half-affectionate abuse of everything in sight. Being impatient to begin the adventure, I suggested more speed.

      “Oh!” he answered. “So you’re another o’ these people in an ’urry to get to Jericho! It’s strynge. The last one was a Harab. Tyke it from me, gov’nor, I’ve driven the very last Harab as gets more than twenty-five miles an hour out o’ me, so ’elp me—”

      He tooled the car out on to the road toward Bethany, and down the steep hill that passes under the Garden of Gethsemane, before vouchsafing another word. Then, as we started to climb the hill ahead, he jerked his chin in the direction of the sharp turn we had just passed in the bottom of the valley. “Took that corner las’ time on one wheel!”

      “For the Arab?”

      “Aye. Taught me a lesson. Never agayn! I ain’t no Arabian Night. Nor yet no self-immolatin’ ‘Indoo invitin’ no juggernauts to make no pancykes out o’ me. ’Enceforth, I drives reasonable. All Harabs may go to ‘ell for all o’ me.”

      He was itching to tell his story. He was likely to tell it quicker for not being questioned; your Cockney dislikes anything he can construe into inquisition. I remarked that the road didn’t seem made for speed—too narrow and too rough—and let it go at that.

      He said no more until we reached the village of Bethany, and drew abreast of Lazarus’ reputed tomb, where a pack of scavenger-dogs awoke and yelped around the wheels. He did his best to run over one of them, but missed. Then he could not hold his story any longer.

      “Two nights ago,” he said, “they gives me orders to take a Harab to a point near Jericho. After dark, I starts off, ’im on the back seat; engine ain’t warm yet, so we goes slow. He leans forward after a couple o’ minutes, an says ’Yalla kawam’!”^[5] So I thinks to myself I’ll show the blighter a thing or two, me not bein’ used to takin’ orders from no Harabs. Soon as the engine’s ‘ot I lets rip, an’ you know now what the road’s like. When we gets to the top o’ that ’ill above Gethsemane I lets extry special rip. Thinks I, if you can stand what I can, my son, you’ve guts.

      “Well, we ’its all the ‘igh places, and lands on a bit o’ level road just often enough to pick up more speed—comes round that sharp bend on ’alf a wheel, syme as I told you—kills three pye-dogs for sure, an’ maybe others, but I don’t dare look round— misses a camel in the dark that close that the ’air on my arms an’ legs fair crawled up an’ down me—’it’s a lump o’ rock that comes near tippin’ us into the ditch—an’ carries on faster an’ ever. By the time we gets ’ere to Bethany, thinks I, it’s time to take a look an’ see if my passenger’s still in the bloomin’ car. So I slows down.

      “The minute I turns my ’ead to ’ave a peer at ’im. ‘Kawam!’ ’e says. ‘Quick! Quick!’

      “So it strikes me I weren’t in no such ’urry after all. Why ‘urry for a Harab? The car’s been rattlin’ worse ’n a tinker’s basket. I gets down to lave a look—lights a gasper^[6]—an’ takes my bloomin’ time about it. You seen them yellow curs there by Lazarus’ tomb? Well, they come for me, yappin’ an’ snarlin’ to beat ‘ell. I’m pickin’ up stones to break their ’eads with—good stones ain’t such easy findin’ in the dark, an’ every time I stoops ’alf a dozen curs makes a rush for me—when what d’you suppose? That bloomin’ Harab passenger o’ mine vaults over into my seat, an’ afore I could say ‘’ell’s bells’ ’e’s off. I’d left the engine runnin’. By the luck o’ the Lord I ‘angs on, an’ scrambles in—back seat.

      “I thought at first I’d reach over an’ get a half-nelson on ’im from behind. But, strike me blind! I didn’t dare!

      “Look where we are now. Can you see the ’air-pin turn at the bottom of this ’ill, with a ditch, beyond it? Well, we takes that turn in pitch-dark shadow with all four wheels in the air, an’ you’d ‘a thought we was a blinkin’ airplane a doin’ stunts. But ’e’s a hexpert, ‘e is, an’ we ’olds the road. From there on we goes in one ‘oly murderin’ streak to a point about ’alf-way up the ’ill where the Inn of the Good Samaritan stands on top. There we ‘as two blow-outs simultaneous, an’ thinks I, now, my son, I’ve got you! I gets out.

      “‘You can drive,’ I says, ‘like Jehu son o’ Nimshi what made Israel to sin. Let’s see you make bricks now without no bleedin’ straw’! I knew there weren’t no tools under the seat—there never are in this ‘ere country if you’ve left your car out o’ your sight for five minutes. ‘You take off them two back tires,’ I says, ’while I sit ’ere an meditate on the ways of Harabs! Maybe you’re Moses,’ I says, ’an know ‘ow to work a miracle.’

      “But the only miracle about that bloke’s ’is nerve. ’E gets out, ’an begins to walk straight on up’ill without as much as a by-your-leave. I shouts to ’im to come back. But ’e walks on. So I picks up a stone off the pile I was sittin’ on, an’ I plugs ’im good—’its ’im fair between the shoulder-blades. You’d think, if ’e was a Harab, that’ud bring ’im to ’is senses, wouldn’t you? But what d’you suppose the blighter did?

      “Did you notice my left eye when you got in the car? ’E turns back, an’ thinks I, ‘e’s goin’ to knife me. But that sport could use ‘is fists, an’ believe me, ’e done it! I can use ’em a bit myself, an’ I starts in to knock ’is block off, but ’e puts it all over me—weight, reach an’ science. Mind you, science! First Arab ever I see